


Duty

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-28
Updated: 2010-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dividing people into good, bad and indifferent: Sally Donovan is one of the good ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

John isn’t sure how many strings Mycroft’s pulled to allow him to be here, at Sherlock’s bedside, in a private hospital room, out of hours. Perhaps none, seeing as this is a very exclusive private hospital after all, but John’s grateful all the same. Sherlock lies quietly under the hospital sheets, sleeping soundly. He hasn’t stirred other than to mumble a few nonsense words as if he was having an unhurried, lazy, conversation. For all the bruises, cuts and scrapes, he seems to be relatively fine. Even the medical chart at the end of the bed says so. He’s been roughed up a bit and, had he been left where he’d collapsed, then the situation would have become more complicated, but he wasn’t. Sherlock being his usual quick-thinking self had had the presence of mind to fumblingly dialling someone, anyone, on his mobile instead of just curling up and losing consciousness in the cold. He’d dialled Scotland Yard, Lestrade’s desk in fact, and help had arrived swiftly, despite it being far too late for Lestrade to be anywhere near the building, let alone at his desk answering calls. John isn’t looking forward to the fallout once Sherlock discovers who _did_ find him. It’s not going to be pretty and John’s already spent far too much of his life unintentionally caught in crossfire, literal and figurative.

Hours later, when Sherlock wakes, he’s more concerned with leaving the hospital and going home to lie on the couch, which he declares is far more comfortable. He graciously accepts the ride in the official black car home, along with the fact that groceries have been delivered, and the small pile of boxes containing some very expensive shirts to replace the one that’s been torn. Mycroft hasn’t been to the hospital but John is certain that he’d caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s assistant out of the corner of his eye a few times. John finds himself wondering if Mycroft has now solved the riddle of how to deal with his brother: behave as if he is a mysterious benefactor in a Jean Webster novel.

“Mycroft’s busy.” Sherlock announces from the couch, hours later, never looking up from his laptop.

John doesn’t know what to say to that so he nods and carries on trying, and failing, to create a vortex in the pan of hot water on the stove.

“Cling film.”  
“What?”  
“Use cling film. That vortex nonsense only works for Delia.”

Which may be the case.

“You can’t put cling film in boiling water.”  
“Use the microwave cling film.”  
“We don’t-“  
“In the bag on the table.”

Sure enough, the roll of microwaveable cling film is in one of the shopping bags left on the table. The two bags on the table contain non-perishables so John has ignored them in favour of making a passing attempt at lunch. Fortunately, the mass of groceries provide a wealth of options: unfortunately those options seem to be deliberately geared towards things like Omelette Arnold Bennett or Eggs Benedict. John’s opted for the latter because that’s at least manageable with the small jar of readymade Hollandaise sauce.

They actually eat at the table for a change because for once it’s actually been cleared of Sherlock’s experiments. They even have freshly ground coffee, made in the new, eight cup, сafetière that was included with their groceries, most likely for Mycroft’s benefit when he does deign to visit.

It’s only after they’ve finished eating, while John is rinsing the dishes in the sink, and Sherlock has started on his second mug of coffee, that Sherlock voices the question that John’s been expecting for a while now.

“Who found me? It wasn’t Lestrade.”

Sherlock had been unconscious at the time, which explains why he doesn’t know who it was but not why he knows it wasn’t Lestrade. John hesitates, considers lying and then decides that Sherlock will find out anyway, so he may as well tell the truth.

“Sergeant Donovan.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully to himself at that, then simply goes back to drinking his coffee and reading the paper.

 

The topic doesn’t come up again until Sherlock’s next case, weeks later, requires their presence at Scotland Yard itself. On the way to Lestrade’s office, Sherlock detours to loom over Sergeant Donavan’s desk.

“You found me.”  
Sally Donovan’s eyes narrow as she looks up, though she doesn’t scramble to stand up in a failed attempt at body language dominance that most people would lose against anyone of Sherlock’s height.  
“Why?”  
“Look, f-“  
“There was nothing to stop you leaving me there to die.”  
She leaps to her feet, furious. “Why- you son of a- Because I’m a police officer! That’s what we do!”  
“Good.” Sherlock nods and then strides off to talk with Lestrade.

“What was-“ John begins as they’re leaving.  
Sherlock smiles, almost approvingly. “People can be divided into good, bad and indifferent. Sally Donovan is one of the good ones.”

Anderson’s stunned expression as Sherlock sweeps past, is indication enough that he’s heard them, and John wonders momentarily what effect Sherlock’s pronouncement might have on things in the future.

“Of course good and evil are arbitrary notions.” Sherlock adds with a wink once Anderson is out of earshot.  
John laughs in spite of himself. “Did you just make that up then? That bit about good, bad and indifferent people?”  
“Of course not. It’s one of Mycroft’s pet causes.”  
John opens his mouth to say something, express disbelief, surprise, acknowledgement, but he doesn’t know which it will be so instead refrains from saying anything.  
“Good and evil _are_ arbitrary.” Sherlock continues. “Maintaining the established state structure tends to be a general indication of goodness, as does abiding by the established legal framework. Maintaining territorial authority, even if that means supporting the legitimate use of violence against your own citizens tends to be good. Committing normative acts on a daily basis to reassure fellow citizens is... can be any of the three but is generally perceived by others as good.”  
John stares at Sherlock in a mixture of horror and wonderment.  
“By that reasoning I’m either evil or indifferent, as is my brother. In fact, Mycroft is probably quite unrepentantly evil, at least on a personal level. Inside our own heads we are _not_ model citizens but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Mycroft helps to maintain the integrity of the state and its basic sovereignty against all others, and that I’m aiding the judiciary by both dealing with crimes and leading other citizens to believe that the established authorities are a lot more effective than they really are.”  
“You... you don’t even know that the Earth goes round the Sun but you...” John stops in his tracks.  
“What?”  
“Sherlock...“ John doesn’t even know if he’s asking for an explanation anymore.  
“The causes and ends of the greatest politic actions and motions of state dazzle the eyes and exceed the capacities of all men, save only those that are hourly versed in managing public affairs.”  
“What?”  
“Filmer. Patriarcha.”  
“Okay...”  
“Classical political theory.”  
“So... you can quote...” John throws his hands up. “I don’t know.”  
“If I can understand how people think then it creates a frame of reference.” Sherlock says, gently, evidently wanting John to understand. “Every observation would be meaningless without knowing what it means. I can’t- well, that’s discourse theory. Unimportant right now but-“  
“Discourse theory.”  
“Yes.”  
“What- _why_ \- I just- can we go home? I think I need some tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jean Webster was the author of the famous _Daddy-Long-Legs_.
> 
> It’s actually Gary Rhodes who suggests creating a vortex in a deep enough pan of water and then cracking the egg into it, Delia Smith just recommends breaking the egg into the pan sans vortex.
> 
> Filmer’s _Patriarcha_ is the definitive text arguing the divine right of kings. The rest of Sherlock’s argument is really a bare bones case of Classical Realism.


End file.
